At exactly 9:00 in the morning, Research Assistant Grace Renfield's eyes snap open. She tilts her head left, then right, with an audible pop, and yanks the tubes out of her mouth with her left hand. At 9:01, the glass door slides open with a soft whoosh and she steps out of her tank.

She stretches elaborately, a series of half-yoga poses designed to unkink muscles not used to motion, joints cracking audibly. When the popping stops, so does she. She walks to a metal sink and spits, then drinks deeply, gasping. A toothbrush waits for her in a porcelain holder; brand new, still wrapped. She cleanses the taste of rubber from her mouth and grins experimentally into a small metal mirror mounted to the wall.

Clothing has been left for her, folded on a bench on the opposite wall exactly according to her specifications. White pants, black shirt. No tags, no labels. A lab coat, cut with a strange high collar, Foundation ID badge already clipped to the front pocket. A pair of glasses, one lens squared off, with a slider on the temple piece to adjust magnification. A pair of heavy combat boots cut in white leather. She gets dressed.

A speaker mounted in the corner plays something ambient with a pulsing beat that could be equally at home in a nightclub or an upscale restaurant. There is nothing else in Renfield's room- the austerity suits her just fine. She nods to herself and steps out, smile hidden behind her collar.

The hallway beyond is lined on one side with identical doors, and on the other with identical photographs- the same as the one that adorns her ID badge. Below each is a small plaque made of stiff cardstock, the same sort you see below paintings in upscale galleries. Each plaque contains a pair of dates and a short paragraph. An obituary. She doesn't read them, but her fingertips trace the wall below them as she passes.

At 10:00, she presents herself to Research Director Anderson. His reaction to her presence is as terse as ever. No greeting, just a directive. The name of the Researcher she'll be working under, and number of the SCP object they'll be working with. She does not ask questions. He looks relieved when she walks away.

At 10:15, after a short walk to the containment wing, she presents herself to the Researcher. He does not ask her name- everyone in the Foundation knows Renfield. He thanks her for her work, and seems pleased she's been assigned to him. He asks her to step into a containment unit. She nods, licks her teeth, and steps in.

At 10:19, she dies. Her evisceration is as swift as it is horrible. Something unfathomable like a shadow on a malfunctioning CRT monitor reaches into her with a claw made out of noise and shucks her like an oyster. On the other side of the observation window, the Researcher frantically takes notes as she is consumed. He does not look surprised.

At exactly 11:00 in the morning, Research Assistant Grace Renfield's eyes snap open. She tilts her head left, then right, with an audible pop, and yanks the tubes out of her mouth with her left hand. At 11:01, the glass door slides open with a soft whoosh and she steps out of her tank.